


Midsummer

by hit_the_books



Category: Supernatural
Genre: British Men of Letters, British Men of Letters Big Bang, Case Fic, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Hunting in England, Light Angst, Pre-Season/Series 01, Season/Series 12, Teenage Mick Davies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: 1995, England.Every midsummer for the past ten years, the crowned fairy princess of Penmouth, Cornwall has disappeared on the night of her coronation. The fates of these girls was unknown, until an unlikely alliance formed between a Man of Letters and an American hunter.Mick Davies and Bobby Singer have only one day to save the next girl.





	1. Prologue - Midsummer, 25th June 1994

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here it is, my contribution to the first [British Men of Letters Big Bang](https://bmol-big-bang.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks to [superfannibalpotterhead](https://superfannibalpotterhead.tumblr.com/) for her amazing art to go with my fic. We've worked together before and it was wonderful to be paired together again. [You can check out the art masterpost here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739916).
> 
> And thank you so much to [soy_em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/works) and [fallintosanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/pseuds/fallintosanity) for being my beta readers on this story.
> 
> Please note that Penmouth does not exist, but those who know Cornwall may well be able to guess which town it's really based on, but I changed the name of just so that I could have some woods beside it.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading my fic.

High, chittering voices followed Tamara through the woods. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t remember the way. Her mother had said not to wander into the woods after dark, but there had been a pink glowing light, and it had whispered, and—

“Ow!” Tamara yelped as she tripped over a root. The wooden crown on her head rolled off and into the undergrowth. “No, no, no,” Tamara whimpered, hands feeling around for the crown, her eyes only just capable of seeing in the gloom.

The chittering, words unknown, grew louder and Tamara’s hand closed over the crown. She picked it up, but didn’t put it on her head. She stood and looked around, trying to figure out which way would lead back to her parents’ home.

A familiar golden glow was visible through the birches and oaks. Taking that as her guide, Tamara started to walk towards the light. She ignored the tiny chitters following her, but just as Tamara reached the edge of the wood, home in sight, sharp tiny teeth sunk into her right leg.

Tamra screamed and dropped the crown, falling to the mossy ground. She screamed again, and tried to push herself up off the dirt as more and more teeth ripped through her flesh. And then tiny hands seized her tongue and Tamara screamed no more.

“Tamara?!” a woman’s voice called into the night, back door open. But the woman didn’t see her young daughter being dragged into the woods.


	2. 23rd June 1995, afternoon

Unfolding from the interior of the Land Rover he’d been cooped up in for over seven hours, Mick Davies bobbed and smiled at his ride. She smiled back, blonde hair still prim and ready for the wedding she was heading to. Mick grabbed his duffel, then stretched his legs as he headed towards the center of the seaside town he’d been deposited in.

The air was so much fresher than back in London, and Mick couldn’t believe how much real air he could suck into his smoker’s lungs. It almost seemed a shame to start rolling up, but his lizard brain was keen to get a hit of nicotine, and he still had a full pouch of Golden Virginia in the inside pocket of his black jacket. Red Dr. Martens slapping against the cobbled street, Mick rolled and strolled, vaguely aware of where he was heading.

It had been a long ride down from the center of London, but he knew he had made the right choice as soon as the heights of the city’s skyscrapers and tower-blocks were a memory behind him. Not that the nightmare that had been his life for more than ten years was gone, but small steps.

Midsummer was a day away, and Mick saw a few posters advertising a town carnival, with a fairy queen and king, and princess and prince to be crowned. He snorted, lit his rollie and continued onwards to the address he’d memorized a lifetime ago. Heading past an ancient customs building, Mick hiked up a hill and checked the numbers on the doors he passed.

The houses in this part of the town were well over a hundred years old, designs a little lopsided, doors wooden and thick. It was old in a way that London rarely felt since the Blitz. And Mick was at home in a way he hadn’t since he was very little. He might have grown up on the streets of London, but for a week or two for several summers, he’d been a resident in the seaside town of Penmouth.

Taking a final drag on his rollie, Mick stubbed it out against a wall and looked at the house he’d reached. The terrace was unassuming, red paint peeling on the front door. Mick pulled out a key on a chain and put into the lock. The door opened and Mick took a deep breath.

Mick stepped inside and ignored the musty smell that greeted him. It wasn’t home, but neither was the Men of Letters headquarters, or Kendricks all the way up in London. But at least this house had nothing to do with those wankers, and that was all Mick wanted there and then. It was just a shame that his grandparents weren’t there to meet him.

 _I should have been here_ , Mick thought with a sharpness that made his heart ache and tears sting the corners of his eyes. The solicitors, who’d transferred ownership of the property to him upon his grandmother’s death, had been sorry about Mick’s loss. What Mick felt was the keenness of what his absence must have felt like to the only family he’d had left.

Not that Mick had been encouraged to think of the MoL as family—that kind of thought was never to be entertained. Sighing, Mick stepped through the hallway and into the kitchen, ducking under its low doorway. The terraced house was almost cottage-like in its proportions. Everything inside was covered in dust sheets, waiting for him to finally return.

Mick had no idea what he was going to do with the house. The Men of Letters didn’t even know he was there. Mick pulled up his black t-shirt and looked at the fresh ink on his stomach— _hopefully they won’t know where I am at all_ , he thought as he looked at the recently done tattoo. He had little direct understanding of the symbols on his torso, he just knew Ketch and co. wouldn’t be tracking him down anytime soon.

The cupboards were almost completely bare, bar a tin of loose tea leaves that smelled brewable. Mick got a kettle out of another cupboard and went over to the gas cooker.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, remembering that the gas and water wouldn’t be reconnected until the next day. Stowing the tea leaves away again, Mick headed out the front door in search of sustenance and a plan.

He couldn’t stay hidden forever, not least from the MoL.


	3. 23rd June 1995, evening

The man with a beard had been staring at Mick for twenty minutes. Well, on and off. Mick had spotted the bearded man, wearing a baseball cap, the moment he stepped into the pub he’d gone to for dinner. None of the other locals—it was that kind of pub—in The Prince of Wales was sat beside this man. He had a berth around him that said “stranger”, and that caught Mick’s interest. Mick just looked like some snot-nosed teenage loner, perhaps an apprentice at the local shipyard, out for a night.

Flecks of gray were visible in the man’s beard, and there were creases forming around his eyes, but he wasn’t frail—a hard-working man still in his prime. The straightness of his back, and the sureness of his hands holding his knife and fork, showed Mick a man who could handle himself. Plus the way he shielded his left side suggested the man was used to having a handgun strapped there.

 _American, maybe?_ Mick pondered, stuffing a piece of battered cod into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, the training he’d received from the Men of Letters running on autopilot, building him a picture of this stranger. The guy was definitely the biggest threat in there, more so than the off-duty police officer who’d ordered a pint of some cheap lager and was busy talking with the pub’s landlord.

Putting his knife and fork down, Mick took a long drag on the pint of cider he’d ordered with his food, gaze focused behind the bar, on a point some four feet from the bearded man. Mick sneaked another glance at the man, taking in the briefcase resting at the feet of his barstool. Something important was in that case, because there was no way it went with the jeans and plaid. Something that had been worth this man coming a long way.

Curiosity gnawed at Mick, making him fidget in his seat as he tried to finish his fish and chips. It’d be too obvious to just walk up to the bar, order a drink and juggle the case away from the man. Equally, it probably wouldn’t work just following the man into the gents’ and spiriting the case away from there.

No, his best bet would be to wait for the man to leave The Prince of Wales, and grab the case then. _I can wait_ , Mick decided, and then went back to eating his meal, the man in his peripheral vision the entire time.

Mick was chewing his last chip when the man drained the last of his pint and slid off his barstool. Check already settled, Mick waited a moment for the man to walk out of the Prince of Wales and get down the road a ways. Then Mick scrambled out of his seat and rushed out of the pub.

Looking up and down the street outside, Mick tried to spot the guy, but there was no sign of him, not even a strand of his beard. There were no taxis nearby, so Mick picked a direction that led towards the nearest taxi rank and started to jog towards it.

The sky was still light, even though the sun had already set.The street was lined with mostly terraced houses and a few restaurants, but Mick couldn’t see the man. Mick was about to try walking in the opposite direction when an arm reached out from a dark, hidden alleyway and yanked him in.

“What the hell’re you playin’ at?!” hissed the bearded man in an American accent, right arm pressed up against Mick’s throat. The case was on the cobbles beside them.

Struggling for breath and footing, Mick wheezed out, “Just curious.”

The man narrowed his eyes and eased his hold on Mick. Big mistake. Mick’s training kicked in and he shunted a knee into the man’s stomach, and went to twist out of his hold and grab the case.

But the man seemed to be expecting everything after the knee, and instead of things going as Mick had planned, wrestled him down to the cobbles instead. With a grunt, the older man had Mick pinned to the street, arms above Mick’s head and a murderous glint in his eyes.

“This must be that great British hospitality I heard so much about,” the man wheezed out. Mick struggled, but the man had him well and truly pinned. “Quit yer fidgeting.”

Mick could have yelled out, to try and get someone’s attention, but he didn’t want to get the police involved, because then Ketch would find him, and Mick didn’t want that. So he stayed silent and gave the man a sullen look.

“I reckon you don’t want the law finding us sparring in the middle of town,” the man said. Mick tried to place his accent, but he had never been that good at identifying American ones. Mick stayed silent.

The man’s eyes suddenly trailed down at Mick’s body, and for a brief moment he was worried where this encounter was going, but instead the man quirked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Say, is that Druidic?”

Mick looked down to where his black t-shirt had ridden up, exposing his new tattoo. “Uh, yeah, it’s a-a ward.”

“Hmmm, looks to me like it stops tracking of any sort. About right?”

Mick was in no position to deny this. “About right.”

“You a hunter?”

And that Mick hadn’t quite been expecting. He thought the guy might be some sort of illegal antiquities trader, but an American hunter? Because only a hunter would ask that question—nope, Mick hadn’t been expecting that.

Trying not to show his surprise, Mick attempted to quickly come up with a reply. He couldn’t tell this guy he was with the Men of Letters, but also on the run from them. No way that would work. Instead, Mick smiled and said, “I dabble.”

Suddenly the man released him and stood up. He held a hand out for Mick, which he took, and heaved him up onto his feet. “Bobby Singer.”

“Mick Davies.”

“How’d a scrawny punk like you end up hunting?” Bobby retrieved his case.

 _I was picked up from the street, and taken to a dangerously posh school and trained in far too many ways for killing_. “Saw something I couldn’t explain, went poking around where I shouldn’t and ended up dealing with a ghost. You?”

Sorrow flashed across Bobby’s face. “Demon possessed my wife… Tried to save her, but… The damage had been done.” Bobby gave a pained smile. “You come to Penmouth for the disappearing girls?”

“I’m sorry to hear that about your wife.” _Wait, what?_ “Disappearances?”

“Yeah, girls been going missing each midsummer these past few years.”

 _If it was something supernatural, we’d know about it._ “Kids go missing all the time.”

“Yeah, but something ain’t right about these.”

Mick was surprised that anything paranormal could be responsible for little girls going missing; the MoL had the country locked up pretty tight against all the things that go bump in the night. Except for the odd ghost. Still, Bobby was a hunter, and the hunters Mick had encountered had been cool, efficient killing machines, not best known for their brains. They were pointed in the right direction and let loose.

Still, there was a lot the MoL had lied to him about, so one of those things could be the characteristics of a typical American hunter. “What isn’t right?”

“You got somewhere we can talk? I don’t think the B and B I’m staying in lets me bring back strays.”

Mick chuckled. “Sure, but I don’t have any running water. Or electricity at the moment.”

“There’s an off-license about five minutes from here. Grab some water and candles, and we can talk about this case.”

“Water. Sure. How about we grab some scotch, too.”

“Oh… right.” Bobby nodded, as if remembering the drinking age in England was younger than it was in the United States.

Bobby led the way out of the alley.

“What’s in the briefcase?” Mick started to roll a smoke, fingers easily holding onto his pouch of tobacco, paper, and filter as he rolled. He might be crap at hand-to-hand with old American geezers, but he could roll a cigarette and walk at the same time with no problem.

Bobby gave him a considered look over his shoulder, as if deciding whether or not to tell Mick. “First edition _Key of Solomon_ , been itching to get hold of one ever since, well, what happened to Karen.”

Of course Mick knew what the _Key of Solomon_ was, but the average hunter wouldn’t. “What’s that?”

“Big ol’ book with stuff on demons, and ways to trap ‘em and things.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Oh definitely. I figured maybe it has a few things in it that means no one else has to go through what I did with Karen.”

“Fair.”

“Still, ain’t gonna help us one bit with what I think’s going on in this town.”


	4. 23rd June - 24th June 1995

The photocopies from the local library weren’t lying. For ten years in a row, one girl, different each time, had gone missing from her home and had never returned. Mick sipped at his scotch and considered that it was unlikely to be a human at work, because the right femur of one of the girls had been found—and there were teeth marks that hadn’t looked human.

Or animal.

Or anything “known to man” and that tended not to be a good sign. The only reason they knew the bone had been one of the kids’ was because it was a recent find and the police had had the sense to send it off for DNA testing. The bone had belonged to the little girl who had disappeared the year before.

“Tamara’s parents first realized something was wrong when her mom didn’t find her in bed,” Bobby explained. His eyes were glued to a police report that Mick had no idea how Bobby had gotten hold of.

“And the girl was nowhere in the house?” Mick took another sip of scotch and closed his eyes as the liquid burned down his throat.

“Nada. Local cops found footprints the next mornin', leading into the woods, and then back… then it looked like something or someone dragged her into the woods.”

Mick poked at a newspaper clipping from 1994. “Says here, Tamara had been named Penmouth carnival princess the night she disappeared.” Mick looked closer at the picture featured in the clipping. The crown on her head looked a little strange for some seaside town.

“That don’ look right,” Bobby murmured, also looking at the crown. “It’s almost like antlers, the way the wood’s been carved.

“You know, it looks just like the sort of thing… a fairy princess might wear.” Mick finished his scotch, stomach suddenly feeling sour. “Another girl is going to go missing in less than a day if we don’t do something.”

“You said fairy crown.” Bobby jabbed a finger at the crown. “What’s fairies got to do with this?”

Mick shrugged and stood up. He wandered around the kitchen table. Fairies shouldn’t be there, Mick knew that, but it wasn’t like the MoL could just stop some idiot who knew a summoning spell. Or knew how to open portals between the mortal realm and the many that Oberon’s folk occupied. Wards could only keep out that which was outside, not that which was already inside.

“Don’t ask me why, but I really do think it’s fairies. It’s not like they’re all about helping princesses find true love and whatever other nonsense. Disney doesn’t know what real fairies are like. Sure, some are nice...”

“But others are a bit more bloodthirsty?” Bobby finished his glass of scotch and poured them both some more.

“From what I’ve heard, yeah. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she’s the first to have remains turn up. I bet she lost her crown in the woods, and lost whatever little protection it offered.” Mick sat back down and rubbed at his face. “I bet that crown made her a _real_ fairy princess.”

Bobby scratched at his beard. “Someone’s bringing that crown, or different crowns to the carnival for this thing...”

Picking up the pile of photocopied newspaper articles, Mick started looking for anything that had pictures of the girls from the carnivals they’d been crowned in. “It’s the same crown, on each one.”

“Any photos of the crowd?”

A few of the crowning photos did have the crowd with the carnival fairy princess. And there was a slender woman near the princess’s mock throne, each time. Her figure was just not quite right. Mick had no idea who she was, but he was quite sure that she was some kind of Fae.

“It’s her.” Mick pointed at the woman. “She hardly changes every year she’s pictured. Her hair remains the same.”

“But why?” Bobby looked at the figure more closely. “Why does she need the girls?”

“Who knows, but we need to stop her getting another princess.”

Bobby hummed and scratched at his beard some more, deep in thought. After some minutes had passed, Bobby nodded to himself. “I doubt we can find her before the carnival, but we should load up on iron and salt. Get some chains. Couple of crowbars.”

“They’re not ghosts,” Mick pointed out. “What’s the salt for?”

“Haven’t you ever heard about fairies needing to stop and count anything dropped in front of them? It’ll confirm she’s Fae _and_ hopefully keep her busy.”

“But how do we stop the princess from being taken?”

“An iron circle.”

“And their parents?”

“We’ll knock ‘em out if we have to.”

Mick had been a part of worse plans.

***

The two of them looked a little odd wearing jackets while working their way through the carnival crowds. The warmth of the day still lingered and it was going to be a balmy night—the kind better spent with company you actually enjoyed. Mick kept finding himself wondering why he’d allowed himself to be dragged into this—it was everything he had been trying to get away from. _Well, not quite everything_ , Mick thought to himself as he looked at Bobby’s hunched shoulders and faded baseball cap.

There was something about working with the older American hunter that was very unlike everything he had ever done with the Men of Letters. Around Bobby, Mick didn’t feel like he had to worry about stepping out of line and ending up dead. A nice feeling to have, for sure. Even if he was on a hunt.

The procession had started on the edge of the town, and was slowly working its way to the center, where there was a large war memorial to local people who had fallen in Word War Two—a fountain. Reaching the center of town ahead of the procession, they found the temporary wooden stage that had been erected for the crowning of the carnival fairy queen, king, prince and princess. If Mick was being truthful with himself, which he was increasingly in the habit of doing, he found it fucking creepy that it was little girls who were being spirited away to whatever plane beyond their own.

“Even if we keep the princess from being taken tonight, it won’t change what’s happened,” Bobby pointed out as they found some good spots to stand near the stage. There were a few volunteers around the space as the jovial roar of the carnival procession approached.

 _I’ll just have to swallow my pride and call those arseholes._ “I have hunter friends nearby. I’ll call them in once we’ve stopped the Fae's plans for tonight.”

“I can stick around if you need back-up,” Bobby offered.

Mick shook his head. “Me and the guys have got it. You should make sure you get that book of yours home.”

Bobby nodded in acceptance and the two of them waited. The metallic happy jingle of kettle drums and accompanying trumpets got closer. People started to clap and shout as the carnival parade finally drew level with the stage.

The two men looked out over the procession and the crowds, trying to find their mark. After several minutes of searching the crowds, just as the contenders for the crowns started to head up the stage, Mick spotted her.

In no way had the newspaper photos done the Fae justice. Her silver-blonde hair caught the late sunlight and made Mick lose all thought for a moment. He shook himself and found the iron chains he had secured on his person. There was no way she was taking another girl. Both he and Bobby had iron blades as well. They were ready to do what needed to be done.

The town’s mayor started his speech. Bobby and Mick edged forward, through the crowds and the stationary floats, drawing closer to the Fae. The carnival Queen and King were to be named first, but Mick wasn’t listening as he finally got alongside the Fae and wrapped an iron chain around her wrist. Bobby came up on the other side of her and Mick caught a flash of his blade.

“I suggest you don’t make a sound,” Mick hissed into the Fae’s ear. “And that you follow us.”

Whether the creature was shaking in fear or anger, Mick couldn’t tell as the two of them edged her away from the memorial and stage, towards an alleyway that opened onto a massive set of stairs. There must have been in excess of a hundred steps leading upwards into another part of Penmouth that overlooked the center. They had planned this as where they would take her. Mick had reassured Bobby that he would be able to dispose of the body without drawing any unwanted attention.

Bobby drew around to the front of the Fae while Mick wrapped more iron around her.

“Please, don’t do this!” she cried in a voice as sweet as honeyed teacakes.

“Well maybe you oughta thought of that before you started taking all those girls,” Bobby growled.

“But you don’t understand. I was just finding my sons wives,” she pleaded, like that would make any of this better.

Mick pulled the chains tighter. “And what about Tamara, the girl from the last summer solstice? She died after she was crowned princess.”

The Fae bowed her head. “That was… unfortunate.”

Bobby huffed out a breath. “Unfortunate my ass. She was killed, by God knows what. Family left to grieve, just like the parents of every other little girl you’ve snatched away.”

“And why them?” Mick asked.

“Because that is _their_ way… even if they don’t remember,” the Fae sighed. She looked defeated, all that unearthly energy and beauty no longer a shining beacon drawing Mick in.

Bobby gave the Fae a thoughtful look. “It’s the crown, isn’t it?”

The Fae nodded. “My sons needed wives. But it had to be girls, so that we could teach them our ways. Make them ours. They’re well looked after.”

Mick gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Where are they?”

The Fae did not answer, turning her head away. Mick squeezed the chain around her tighter still and she shrieked.

“R-Rigunth’s realm!” she wheezed out. It was a familiar name that Mick had learned in one of his classes at Kendricks.

Bobby gave Mick a look asking “is that everything”. Mick nodded and Bobby plunged the iron blade into the Fae’s heart. Covering her mouth with his hand, Mick waited for the Fae to die before finally lowering her to the ground. He removed the chains, said a few choice spell words and plucked a hair from his head that he then placed on the Fae.

Blue flames erupted along the body and it burned quickly to nothing but gray ashes.

Quirking an eyebrow, Bobby gave Mick a concerned look. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

“Buy me a beer?”

Bobby snorted. “Not until after we get our hands on that crown.”


	5. 24th June 1995, evening

Maybe Mick felt bad about lifting the crown from the little princess’s head while she wasn’t paying attention, but seeing it go up in flames a few minutes later brought a sense of ease that he needed. He’d helped save a child from meeting a terrible fate and he was going to get help for the other missing girls.

Even if the girls were not quite themselves once they came back, Mick knew people who would be able to help them. And a trip to a fairy realm almost sounded like it would be fun.

“Here you go.” Bobby placed a pint of Carlsberg in front of Mick. He then sat down opposite him with a pint of the same lager. It was the same pub as the one they'd first met in, busy with people who'd watched the carnival.

“Ta… So, when you flying back?”

“I need to be back at Heathrow by tomorrow evening, which shouldn’t be impossible. I’ll work a glamor so I can keep the book with me. Don’t need anyone at customs to go sniffing around it.”

Mick nodded. “Thanks, uh, for bringing me in on this hunt.”

“Well I needed an extra pair of hands. Don’t know many hunters on this side.”

Mick almost blanched, because he knew why that was, but he didn’t want Bobby getting dragged into all of that. The old men didn’t need to know about Bobby Singer. They might find it hard to believe that Mick had taken on a Fae all by himself, but he didn’t want the MoL to get their claws into Bobby. While they treated members well, they weren’t the most pleasant to hunters, and that was putting it mildly. “Happy to oblige,” Mick managed.

“Say, if you ever find yourself in Sioux Falls, South Dakota… There’ll be a beer waiting for you.” Bobby gave Mick a warm, genuine smile. “Singer Salvage. It’s not much, but it’s home.” Bobby held up his glass.

Mick picked up his. “What are we toasting?”

Bobby looked thoughtful for a moment, and it was a little difficult to believe that this wizened older man would be so sentimental. “Hmm, how about to new friends?”

“To new friends.” Mick and Bobby clinked their pint glasses together and each took a sip.

It wasn’t long before they called it a night and went their separate ways.

***

“Well, well, well… so this is where you’ve been hiding out?” Arthur Ketch wore a leather jacket that hugged his body and seemed even less suited to the heat than Mick’s long black trench coat. Morning light filtered in through a window and the scene would have been quite pleasant if it weren’t for the way Ketch loomed over everything.

Mick had been sat in the kitchen of his grandparents’ old place when he’d been debating whether or not to call the Men of Letters or to go rescue the girls himself. There was a pay phone down the street he could have used, but just as he had reached the front door—Ketch came knocking.

“What do you want?” Mick was sat with his arms crossed over his chest, trying to hide the mixture of fear and awe he always felt around Ketch, along with a low level of hate.

“The old men told me to come and bring you home. ‘Course I would have been here sooner, but you’re a clever one. I had to do it the non-magic way.”

That didn’t dignify a response, so Mick stayed quiet for a moment as Ketch checked out the kitchen. He hoped Ketch hadn’t done anything to the woman who had given him a lift, but the older man—ten years his senior—had a reputation.

“I was busy… working a case. There was a Fae kidnapping little girls.”

Ketch stopped, turned to Mick and gave him a look of pure disbelief. “ _You_ worked a case? Wonders will never cease.”

“I am allowed to, as a fully initiated member of the Men of Letters.”

Shaking his head, Ketch took a seat opposite Mick and leveled a shark-like stare at him. “Did you handle it?”

“The Fae’s dead. We stopped her before she could kidnap another little girl. But there are possibly more girls in Rigunth’s realm. I was hoping that with the help of a few others we could perhaps-”

“We’ll be doing no such thing.”

“But-”

“But nothing. The old men keep their noses out of the fairy realms. And with good reason. They don’t normally bother us, except of course with whatever you found. We stay out, they stay out.”

The blood drained from Mick’s face. He couldn’t quite believe the coldness of it all. _This is insane, they don’t deserve to be left there to rot. They were little girls when they were taken, they_ \- “We should do something. Their families have had no closure, except for the one girl who definitely died.”

Ketch stood up from his seat. “We’re leaving now. Pack your things.” He walked out of the kitchen, and Mick could hear his booted feet come to a stop beside the front door.

It felt wrong to leave things unfinished and to break his promise with Bobby. But Ketch wasn’t someone Mick could just take on and run away from again. Not like this. So he did as he was told, heading upstairs to pack the few belongings he had brought with him.

Months later, Mick managed to track down a number for Singer’s Salvage. No one was home, but he left a voicemail on the business number. He made up some excuse, but told Bobby that someone still needed to help the girls.


	6. Epilogue - 2nd April 2017

Sneaking past the security fences that had been put up was easy enough. Mick had caught his favorite long tan coat on a rusted rebar near the fence, but thankfully the fabric hadn’t been torn.

In his left hand he had a box of beers he’d bought from a store further into town. Now on the outskirts, in the remains of Singer Salvage, Mick reached the crater and put the beers down. He knew what had happened to Bobby Singer. Well, some of it, at least. How couldn’t he with Toni’s obsessive note taking over the Winchesters?

But he had wanted to see for himself once he had finally made it stateside. He wanted to finally have that beer Bobby had promised. From what he had figured, the boys had given Bobby a “hunter’s funeral” so there was no grave to pay his respects at. All that was left was the house that Mick had never seen.

Mick took out two beers from the box, unscrewing the lids on both.

“I hope you were able to help those girls, I really do,” Mick said to the ruins in front of him. His voice had deepened with age. “I apologize for not being able to do as I had promised.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, willing back the tears that wanted to gather. _God, if Ketch saw me like this, I would never hear the end of it._ Mick shivered and opened his eyes.

“A toast,” Mick held the beers up in front of him, “to old friends.” He clinked the bottles together and then put one to his mouth while upending the other into the ruined hole in front of him. He drank his beer as he poured the other.

How far both of them had come.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [dreamsfromthebunker](https://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Midsummer (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739916) by [JustAFrenchGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAFrenchGirl/pseuds/JustAFrenchGirl)




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